How Rincewind Did Not Get Home
by widdershins
Summary: Twas a dark and rainy night... but with plenty of moonlight and a conspicuous absence of precipitation. In any case, Rincewind doesn't like it one bit.


**Disclaimer**: Rincewind and his Discworld cohorts are entirely the property of Mr. Terry Pratchett, and I am only a humble admirer. Needless to say, this is a load of bullocks.

**Notes**: Done as an assignment for English class last year. The idea was to make a short story based on the poem a " target"blank">The Listeners /a> by Walter de la Mare. It was too good of an opportunity to pass up.

If anyone had been near the house at that hour, they would have seen a small, skinny, and altogether shabby-looking man standing on the front porch. He was wearing red, ratty and slightly-singed robes that only reached to his stringy calves and a pointed hat with what would appear to be the word "WIZZ" written on it in sequins. The viewer would have also seen a scrawny bag of bones (known in most cultures as a horse) rapidly devouring the daisies that had sprung up in the front lawn which, in all likelihood, had experienced only a brief flirtation with a mower before deciding that it just wouldn't work out.

The whole scene was bathed in moonlight, though 'hastily showered with moonlight' might have been slightly more accurate. The full moon was wan and pasty, and it was partially smothered by troublesome clouds. The traveler (because no one in the area had fashion sense _that_ horrible) seemed ignorant of his surroundings and was fully absorbed in scratching the back of his neck while holding a one-sided conversation with the door.

"Um. Hello? Is anyone, er…there? Here, I mean," Rincewind asked, standing on his toes to try and peer through the fish-hole that was located _just_ high enough for it to be rendered entirely useless. "Hello? Um, someone told me to… I'm sure, er, at least, I'm pretty _sure _I'm supposed to be here, so if you would… open… the door? Maybe?"

After several moments of struggle, his feet finally threw in the towel. Apparently, prolonged and abusive stretching of the soles had not been in the contract. Feeling his defeat, Rincewind sighed, sitting down on the welcome mat as a faint echo of 'Kumbaya, My Lord' emanated from the general region of his sandals. He leaned back against the door, trying to resist the urge to Slam His Head Against Offending Door. He failed miserably. Most likely owing to the fact that he hadn't eaten in the past day and hadn't slept in the past two, he was actually surprised when his hat fell off.

Blinking rapidly with the air of someone who has just managed to re-arrange the interior design of his cranium and can't quite remember why he felt the need to do so in the first place, Rincewind delicately placed his hat back on his head, after making sure the 'WIZZARD' was facing forward. He frowned, feeling with his fingertips the places where some of the sequins had fallen off and left what he felt were probably gaping holes. He felt naked, in the same way that a small childfeels without his security blankie. He would have to try and get it fixed up once he got back to Ankh-Morpork. Which, of course, lead him back to why he was sitting on an otherwise-empty doorstep of a mostly-empty house in the middle of the very-empty-and-even-slightly-depressing night.

While he had been quite literally beating himself up, the stolen horse—which was not so much "stolen" as "borrowed without permission and with little intent of being returned—had made quick work of the front hedges and had moved on to the flower beds. Rincewind figured the horse was probably skinnier than he was, proportionally of course, and just hoped that the owner of the house wouldn't mind waking up to holes in his ornamental shrubs, which were now starting to look more like ornamental Swiss cheese than anything else.

Rincewind had almost managed to doze off (the thought that the horse would run off attempted to cross his mind, but was so frightened by what it saw there that it abruptly turned about-face and fled) when the rustle of feathers reached his ears. Scratching the side of his stubbly chin, Rincewind blearily looked up, then back down. The bird perching on the frame of the door had left him a small greeting, just where his hand had been a second before. Being more irritable than when he'd had a full stomach and a good night's sleep, Rincewind shook a fist at the bird, mumbling something along the lines of 'bloodybirdcan'tgiveamanbito'restgo'waylemme…potatoes…mm…go'way…"

The bird gave a peep that was entirely too cheery for the ungodly hour of 3 am. Rincewind groaned, sitting up a little straighter and uncrossing his legs. He turned, glaring up into the gloom at the bird. "You try that one more time…" And he realized there really wasn't much he could do to the bird. It had him beat in just about every category: speed, intelligence, cleverness, evil genius. Well, maybe not speed, but evil genius, certainly. Rincewind gave the bird a dark scowl. "All right. You win, for now."

The bird peeped again and flitted off into the nothingness of the surrounding forest, but not before leaving a farewell in front of the big toe that was pocking out of the ratty sock on Rincewind's left foot. He opened his mouth, thought for a long moment, then shut it again. Taking care to avoid the bird's gifts, Rincewind dragged himself to his feet, this time pounding on the door with the desperation of a man who, finding himself on his last string, was wildly searching for a needle.

"Listen! I'm _supposed_ to be here! Great Wizzard! Me! Rincewind! Not cheese, _me_! You're supposed to help_me_ get home, remember? You sent _me_ off into this mess of a country and I've been through _plenty_ of horrible experiences that should fill my quota wheeze of performing services of great benefit to magic for both myself and my future offspring for the next five generations pause for breath and if those _bloody_ wizards at the Unknown Untold Unseen Whatever University think this is some sort of a funny joke, I'm telling you now that it is _not_ funny and is actually more _aggravating _than anything else and I don't even have any potatoes left so would you _please_ gasp just let me _in_?"

There was (as he had tried not to expect but had anyway) a very long silence, broken only by the continuous scrape of bark and tooth (the horse had finished off the shrubs and was now flossing with the branches of a kept-pathetically-small-on-purpose excuse-for-a-maple-tree). However, it was the sort of silence that let one know that someone else was listening very intently, and perhaps even slowing their breath as so to not be heard. Rincewind had much experience with this sort of silence (as he was usually the one perpetrating it) but he had to give the listeners some credit. They weren't nearly as good as, say, one of the members of the Assassins Guild, but they were fairly high up on the list.

"I know you can hear me! It's much too quiet to be natural! I know you're there! So… um, come out please! Or, preferably, let me in? ...maybe?" Again, the silence. Perhaps he had gotten the wrong house…

Looking about, Rincewind spied a loose cobblestone a few feet down the path—it was the same loose cobblestone that had attempted to personally introduce his face to the rest of its companions as he had first walked up. Inspiration struck, rather violently for so late at night—or early in the morning, his subconscious grumbled. Rincewind half-walked, half-stumbled down the porch stairs, if only to escape the relentless beating his mind was receiving from his muse. It took a bit of fancy maneuvering (namely, wedging his fingers down into the squishy moss that surrounded the cobblestone) but after a bit of struggling and muffled curses, the stone popped free with a loud, sucking '_squelch_'—leaving a gaping hole in the path. Carrying it back up the porch stairs, he dropped it down in front of the door. Nudging it over a bit with his foot, Rincewind stepped up on the cobblestone and tried to peer inside once more. He could now see that the house was very dark inside. This was improvement.

A series of loud, slurping noises told Rincewind that his horse had located the birdbath. He signed, running the back of his hand over the side of his face, then over the other side as well, so it wouldn't feel neglected. He reflected, as he had many times before, that the Luggage would have come in handy right about now. He could almost hear the patter of its thousands of tiny feet, and the swishing noise of its hundreds of little legs. It would have eaten the doorknob for him, surely. Perhaps even the entire door, if he had asked. Oh, sweet sapient pearwood, parting is such sorrowful sorrow.

Rincewind groaned again, knocking his forehead against the door in a futile, quantum-approved attempt to gain entry. Even if no one was there (which he knew was not the case), he could at least have fixed himself a midnight—no, three o'clock—snack. Or, perhaps, borrowed one of the beds.

"Look, you _stupid_, bloody monks! I was told to be here by your _stupid_ albatross which I know you sent me because those _stupid _wizards told you to send to me and I came _all_ the way from Hunghung on that _stupid_ horse to get here (sorry, Rodney, I really didn't mean it like that, you _are_ an excellent horse) and I really would appreciate it if you would **just let me in**!"

After his hysterics subsided, Rincewind gave the door a satisfying kick, which was satisfying just before he did it, but not so much just after. He winced and wiggled his injured toes. They frowned at him again, and he had to tune out a rousing rendition of "All You Need Is Love," which he swore they must have picked up from the dwarves at the Mended Drum.

"Fine, then. If that's the way you're going to be, I guess I'll just have to find my own way home. One that doesn't involve any ant farm-powered compu-wossits! See how you like that!"

This, of course, would be the Unseen University's computer, Hex, which was used to transport Rincewind to the Empire of Hong, Sung, Fang, Tang, and McSweeney in the first place. Rincewind had decided—in the time that he wasn't being captured, running away from captors or bring made to blow holes in walls—that he distinctly disliked Hex and that he would be very happy if, in fact, he never had to see the blasted thing again.

Rincewind turned, leaving the cobblestone on the welcome mat, and went to collect Rodney from where he was contentedly munching the remains of a hanging basket on the side of the house. The horse gave him little difficulty; something he was highly unaccustomed to. Rincewind lead the animal back around the front, sighing in disappointment. He had so been looking forward to a good night's sleep, and the albatross' letter had even suggested that the monks might have had extra potatoes lying around. Oh well. Potatoes, bed, and going home would have to wait a bit longer. He'd find an inn, manage to spend the night without paying (that is, in the stable) and come back in the morning.

He solemnly turned towards the not-empty house, gave it the one-finger salute, and with little grace and even less agility, mounted the now-satisfied horse, and trotted off into the night.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how Rincewind did not get home.


End file.
